


Sit, Rest

by FasterPuddyTat



Series: A Brief Interlude in Red and Blue [2]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Awkward Conversations, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Mass Effect 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2019-12-07 00:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18227714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FasterPuddyTat/pseuds/FasterPuddyTat
Summary: Shepard and Garrus have a lot to talk about. Who liked who first? What does a rose smell like? How does Garrus pronounce her name without lips?One of my favorite parts of Mass Effect 2 is the option to call your LI up to the loft after the final mission. Whoever thought to add this little extra bit of fluff after the credits is a mad genius. This is a collection of short conversations in the loft, inspired by the silly pantomime of Shep sitting in Garrus's lap, having a conversation you're not privy to. They start the morning after their successful mission past the Omega 4 relay, and end the night before Garrus leaves for Palaven.Sequel to As You Are.





	1. Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> This is my lighter, fluffier piece I've been working on in tandem with Spiral. When that one gets sticky or dark, this one gets some love. I decided to post it, because apparently my posting style is feast or famine. I will keep this one to a T rating. There might be poetry.

Shepard sat on the bed, eyes closed, back straight but relaxed, legs crossed in a loose half lotus. Her hands were before her, palms up, a sphere of dark energy hovering over them only a few centimeters from her heart. She exhaled. 

_Ping._

“Yes, EDI?”

“Officer Vakarian has entered the elevator and selected the top level.”

“O…kay?”

“I believe he intends to… make a social call.”

Shepard opened her eyes and let the orb fade away. She looked toward the foot of her bed at the crumpled sheets, the untidy stack of datapads and circuit boards in various states of repair covering her desk. She looked down at her own body, the loose tank top and shorts that left vast tracts of skin exposed to any and all visitors. 

“The elevator has arrived on this level.”

Shepard rolled her eyes. “EDI, let the man in. I appreciate your concern, but it’s unnecessary.”

“As you wish.” The door chimed.

“Come,” she called.

“After you,” purred a velvety dual toned voice. She snickered, _so forward, little turian._ Garrus walked down the steps holding a pair of covered plates. Shepard smelled eggs, grits, and bacon, and something oddly sweet and sharp. _Space lemons,_ she thought with a smirk. He set the food on the low table and ducked his head to the side, giving her his best profile as he straightened. She chuckled at the unconscious preening, flattered it was for her. “Rupert said you hadn’t been down for breakfast…”

“I tried,” she said, “but everyone was already there and it was… noisy.” She shifted, ruffled her hair. “Figured I’d come back once it cleared out a bit, but I started meditating. Guess I lost track of time.”

“Lucky for you, I was also late to breakfast. Rupert knows, by the way.” She raised an eyebrow. “Not much he doesn’t know about the ship with his job.” He uncovered the plates, inhaling the steam from one of them. “He’s a good guy, which isn’t something I thought I’d say about a Cerberus employee. Rough around the edges, sure, but he has a soft, chewy center when it comes to you.”

“Don’t tell him you think so. He wouldn’t stop talking about your teeth for weeks.”

He chuckled. “I won’t. He is shockingly loyal, though. A few choice words, and he’d follow you anywhere.”

Shepard scooted off the bed and crossed to the couch. She tucked her feet under her and unwrapped her utensils, watching as Garrus did the same. His breakfast looked almost exactly like hers, if hers had been run through an uncanny valley and had its colors edited by a child. There were eggs, about half the size of those on her plate, and the white was baby blue with a deep magenta yolk. His bacon was square and royal blue streaked with violet, the browning effect of a nice Maillard reaction showing instead as cobalt. It smelled of lemons and caraway, and while those weren’t necessarily scents she associated with breakfast, they didn’t put her off. They clinked their coffee (kava) mugs, and dug in.

“So tell me,” she said through a mouthful of buttered grits, “how is it that you worked in C-Sec for so many years, alongside at least a few different humans, and you didn’t know what coffee was?”

“Really, Shepard? We just survived a suicide mission, came back from the Omega Four relay, blew up a fifty-thousand year old space station in the galactic core, and you’re asking me about coffee?”

“What?” She swallowed. “It’s been bugging me.” She watched him pick an egg off his twin-spiked utensil with a dainty snick of side teeth, then tilt his head back and swallow it whole. A warmth rose in her as she realized, he’d never let her see him eat before. Sure, they’d shared protein bars and drinks, but those went down roughly the same for every species. This was different. New. It felt… intimate.

“You’ve been wondering that since the first Normandy?” She nodded. He shook his head. “I don’t know… I never asked them. We were usually on different schedules than the humans, and they kept separate dextro and levo break rooms. It wasn’t… I guess I never cared before.”

“Aww, but you cared when it was my coffee?” She wasn’t fluent in turian expressions, but _guilty_ flashed across his as he prodded his meat strips. “You did!” She giggled. “I liked those quiet mornings with you, too.” He looked up. _Interested._ “You and Wrex were the only crew I had who weren't terrified of me for one reason or another. You were definitely the only ones who’d squeeze in beside me when the tables were full, and Wrex… well, eating near Wrex was a chore.”

He chuckled into his mug of kava. “I remember.” 

They were quiet for a while after that, both enjoying the better than average breakfast in the serenity of her cabin. She watched him when she could, trying very hard not to make him uncomfortable. He saw her grab a slice of bacon with her fingers, and she bit her cheek to keep from grinning when he visibly relaxed and did the same with his. She held hers out with a raised eyebrow, and he tapped his much thicker piece against it. _Cheers._ They both leaned back as they tore pieces from the strips in their fingers. She chewed and swallowed, he nipped and gulped, and they watched each other eat, curious. 

When their plates were empty, she rose and stacked them on her desk. She returned and decided against sitting across from him again. Instead, she nudged his legs apart, wrapped one of his arms around her waist, and set herself gently on his thigh. She felt him draw a deep breath and freeze. She leaned her forehead against his and hummed a warm note of welcome. His armor was cold on her bare skin, but the crook of his elbow was fever-hot. He relaxed as she kept up the light pressure on his crest and the quiet hum, closing his eyes and humming back. 

She realized belatedly that she should have asked before claiming him as her throne. “Is this okay?”

“Mm, unexpected, but yes. Better than okay.” He shifted, uneasy again. “What we said before the last mission…”

“Not just nerves and empty oaths thrown in the face of death,” she said. “You’re it.” She smiled. “I… I think you always were.”

He shifted back to look at her, tilting his head. “Likewise.”

She poked him. “You didn’t technically say anything.”

He brushed her shoulder where his mark, his promise, was quickly fading. “I did,” he said. “You just couldn’t hear me.”


	2. Second Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 4/13/2019. Yayyy messy works in progress! I swear each time I rewrite after posting I feel like I'm pulling the rug out from under you. Whoop, new stuff! Whoop, 200 more words! Ayyy some day I'll learn. Until then, tally ho!

The door opened and they fell through, a tangle of limbs and armor. Garrus caught the frame and stopped them before they hit the floor. Shepard giggled and he turned to face her, drawn to the source of this seldom-heard sound. It was light, effervescent, incongruous to the Commander he’d idolized, but integral to the woman in his arms. _In his arms._

Shepard let herself be caught, though crashing to the floor wound around him had been her initial plan. She giggled, _my heeero,_ and his fierce blue eyes pinned her with their unrelenting focus. Warmth flooded her under his regard and she found her feet, standing with him. She pulled him to press her against the wall, her lips hot on his mouth in an attempt to share what he’d lit in her. 

He froze, a fractional moment. _Kissing, right,_ and recovery saw his palm cupping her jaw, the other braced on the wall. She tasted smoky and sharp, her drink of choice so different than the sweet, spicy brandy he preferred. He slipped the smooth tip of his tongue between her lips, eager for more. The hard shell of their armor clacked when he stepped forward. She broke the kiss to glance down at their predicament. He looked too, and returned to see her grin at him. He stepped back. Her armor was unfamiliar to him, the clasps in all the wrong places, too small and finicky for his taloned fingers. He saw her examine his own armor, relieved to see a similar hesitation in her expression. 

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” Shepard said.

He chuckled, _some things are universal,_ he thought. He pointed to the latch on his left shoulder. “Start here.”

The armor came off slowly. They sat on the floor and showed each other how to clean and inspect each piece, a graze at the side of his chest plate, a puncture at her thigh, the ammunition pancaked several millimeters deep into the ceramic. She stood to grab a pick from her desk, but he caught her wrist. She sat down next to him as he removed his gloves, slowing as he pulled the soft leather from his talons. She saw the one he’d blunted for her, left index, a full centimeter shorter than the rest. Her brows knitted in concern when she noticed a tiny blue bloodspot in the center where he’d quicked himself. 

She reached for his hand. He pulled away, and she stopped and pointed instead. “Does it hurt?”

He studied his shortened talon. “Did when I clipped it,” he said. “A sprinkle of powder and it was fine, though. The quick will shorten if I keep it this way,” he peered at her. “Should I? Or—”

“Selfish answer? Absolutely.” He chuffed. “Real answer depends on yours, though. Is there any reason you wouldn’t want to?”

He shook his head. “No one else would know.” He flashed all six talons, and goddamn her, she winced. His mandibles flared. “Yeah… they have that effect on aliens. We learned to keep our gloves on a few centuries ago. Now? Even on Palaven we don’t go out in public without them. Barehanded is worse than barefaced.”

She gave him the damaged armor. He was conscious of her eyes on his exposed skin, and a shiver ran down his spine at the deep intimacy of it. He watched her in his periphery, and he knew she didn’t understand. He sighed and set the point of a talon against the edge. With a flick of his wrist, he popped the offending shard from the ceramic. He filled the hole and sealed every crack with the gel she handed him before presenting it for inspection with a flourish. She smiled taking it, and studied his handiwork while he put his gloves back on. 

“You’re hired,” she said. “I would have spent ten minutes digging at that shard, making it worse the whole time.”

“Pleased to be of service,” he said, picking at his soft undersuit. “However, you dragged me up here from a very comfy spot in the lounge with a promise of snacks, and I see no snacks.” 

She jumped to her feet, swaying a bit. “Snacks! Yes!” She rummaged through her desk, straightened, and tossed him a crinkly bag full of packaged food. “I picked these up on Illium last time we were there, that little shop we passed on the way to transport? The owner was from Cipritine. I asked for her favorites…” She watched him, wishing once again she’d done more extranet research on turian expressions. Did that flick of his left mandible mean he was amused? Would it have been both for surprise, had his right mandible not been injured? She leaned on the desk, the metal flexing under her fingers as she waited for him to speak. 

He sorted through the bag, amazed at its contents. These weren’t just snacks, it was his childhood in a shopping tote. Here was his usual after-school treat, a dense cake filled with berries and custard, here a holiday bar, layers of dried meat sticky with sweet glaze. He laughed out loud when he saw the sausages. When he looked up to thank her, he saw her stiffen. He shook his head and rose to join her at the desk. Without a second thought, before he could worry if it was proper or welcome, he pressed his forehead to hers and rumbled a thanks she could only feel. Her shoulders relaxed and she slid her hands over his chest, the edges of her small fingers soft between his plates.

“Shepard. Thank you.” He stood back to look at her, and cocked his head to the side. “Do I want to know how much this cost?”

She laughed. “You’re worth it. Really, I’m just glad it’s okay. Couldn’t tell if she was being honest with me, or using me to dump the stuff that wasn’t selling.” She reached back into the desk for her private stash and two glasses, and motioned to the couch. They set their late night feast out on the low table. She poured amber liquid into the glasses, the same smoky liquor from before.

Garrus lifted one to swirl it under his nose, and quickly replaced it on the table before unleashing a full body sneeze. Shepard cracked up while he shook himself, preening and looking for all the world like an embarrassed cat. He shot her a dirty look. “What _is_ this?” he asked.

“Single malt scotch,” she said. “Donnelly got it for me, after… anyway, it’s not to everyone’s liking. There is some bourbon, if you you’d rather?”

He picked the drink up again, cautious, and dipped his tongue into the glass. He let the drop glide to the back of his mouth, testing the burn as the scent of the liquor filled his sinuses with memories of bonfires and open hearths. It was unlike anything he’d had before. “It’s… different.” She nodded. He took a small sip and closed his eyes as the wildfire roared within him. He shivered. “Thank you, for letting me try it. Think I’ll stick with my brandy next time, though.”

She shrugged. “More for me,” she said, and took a mouthful of her own scotch. She held it on her tongue for a moment, savoring the peaty burn before swallowing. She watched him poke around in the snack bag and unwrapped a pemmican bar for herself. “Find something you like?”

He chuffed. “Everything. Having a hard time knowing where to start. What’s yours?” 

“Pemmican,” she said. “It’s ancient, really, one of the first preserved foods we have an archaeological record for. This one is game meat, tallow, and dried currants, straight from the fertile pastures of Benning.” He sniffed at it, and shook his head. “Ha, yeah that’s what most people think of it.” She tore a bite from the bar and chewed. “I learned to make it in the migrant camps, after Gran died… though that protein was usually bugs rather than elk.” She looked fondly at the dark, greasy lump. “The camps were my first true refuge,” she said. “Gran tried, but she wasn’t much for nurturing. This, though,” she waggled the pemmican at him, “this tastes like home.”

He pulled a thick paper-wrapped cylinder from the bag and set the rest to the side. She noticed his sudden, thoughtful quiet. “Did she tell you what any of this is?” he asked. She shook her head. He tore the paper open to reveal something that made her think _summer sausage,_ but where every summer sausage she’d known in her life was red, his was a greenish blue. “You don’t have a knife handy…?”

She did have a knife handy, and a plate. He removed the outer casing and cut a few thin slices, marveling at the fresh sheen on the fat. When he had a small pile, he wrapped the remainder in its paper and rolled each slice into an uneven spiral. He plucked at each wide end to spread it out, and arranged them on the plate. When he was done he pushed it toward her, curious to see what she would make of it. 

Shepard reached out to touch a silvery blue petal, amazed at the delicacy and beauty before her. He had turned sausage into a bouquet of flowers, deep blue speckled with white flecks of solid fat. “Where did you…”

His mandibles flared. “My father’s mother, she was a professional cook. She would rescue me from his _training_ and give me simple tasks. I think... she wanted me to succeed at something, after days like that.” He looked through the plate of flowers and stars, selecting a few misshapen ones and tossing them into his mouth. “I’m overdue for a visit,” he said. “My mother…” His visor pinged and he glanced up. Shepard had turned a shade of red he’d associated with… other activities. Interesting, that response was triggered by other stimuli. He took another, savoring the slick, salty meat, and swallowed. “Something to share with the squad, Shepard?”

“I know,” she said, “about your mother.” He stared at her, watched her squirm. “When Liara became the Shadow Broker there were files…” she trailed off, unable to meet his eyes. Shepard wasn’t proud she’d read the Broker’s intel on her crew, things even she had never teased from them. She’d told herself it was in the interest of better serving, better preparing her crew. Here, though, violation in his eyes, she felt anew the keen double edge of secrets carefully guarded. “I know,” she finished softly.

He sat on the couch, her couch, in her quarters, stunned. He hadn’t told anyone but Solus… how long had she… she _knew_ but still they ricocheted around the galaxy, mopping up collectors and pirates and heretic geth? A rumble grew in his chest and he saw the hair rise on her arms. “Then you _know,_ I need to go to them. Soon.” He watched her heart rate increase on his visor, saw the artery jumping in her neck. An old xenobio lesson flashed in his mind, _vulnerabilities: human._ He looked away, talons flexing.

She had tasted a hint of fear at his anger, but it flooded her when he looked away. “Garrus, I… you never said anything.”

“What did you see? Emails? Which?”

“An email, from Helos Medical.” His shoulders relaxed, barely. Her first instinct was to let it go there, but she’d carried the weight of that knowledge too long already. “And a chat transcript, you and Solana, before we went through the relay.” His head snapped back to focus on her again. “I didn’t know it would be so… personal. I never meant to overstep—”

“You did, the second you opened our private files.” he said. His words were quiet, but subaural vibrations rolled from him in waves. He stood, throwing the sack of food on the table like a challenge. “Why did you do it, Shepard? _Why,_ and then act like nothing had happened?” 

He saw the pain in her eyes when he threw the gift back at her, and it infuriated him. How dare she be hurt, after what she’d done. He moved to the door, fully intending to storm back to his cot in the battery until he saw their armor, clean and repaired, in two neat stacks below the aquarium. _We did that, together._ His fury cracked, just enough to admit a bright shaft of memory, _her eyes on his talons, his talons on her skin, silver and silk._ He spun on his toes and began to pace in front of her fish, trying to patch the fissure with indignation. So many times she had lectured him on what was morally good and right. So many times she’d frustrated his pursuit of justice, or looked at him with disappointment after he’d failed her in some unknowable way _like his father always had._ He’d always found a way to tell himself that she was right, but now…

She tensed, staring at hundreds of credits worth of dextro junk food scattered on her table and floor. _Nothing. It’s worth nothing if I’ve lost him._ He started to the door and she leapt from the couch, but he turned to pace when he reached the first step. “Garrus.” He didn’t acknowledge her. Her own temper flared as she watched him stalk back and forth in her room. This wasn’t hers to bear alone. “Hey. HEY.” He stopped, still refusing to look at her but it was a start. “I wasn’t the only one acting like everything was _fine._ You could have left any time, but you hid in the battery _calibrating,_ hoarding your troubles like some… twisted dragon that confused guilt with gold.” 

Her words lanced the boil in his chest, and all the self-loathing he’d stored there flowed out. He set a match to it. “I believed in you.” He turned to face her. “Trusted you. Had your back from the beginning when it was just you and Cerberus goons, followed you into the jaws of death _twice_ but you needed _intel_ on me?” He watched her flinch and a small, mean part of him shrieked in victory. It was soon drowned out by a growing realization. Shepard didn’t flinch that easy. “What did you read, Shepard? What else was in those files?” _What do you know of the depths I have roamed?_

She looked at him, the injured rage in his eyes, the kill list with its litany of horrors fresh in her mind. “Archangel.” 

His fingers flexed. “Archangel did good work.”

“Archangel tortured a slaver to death.”

His breath came hard. _The deepest, then._ “If you had seen his _stock,_ you’d have done the same.” _No, she wouldn’t._

“No, I wouldn’t.” He broke their staring contest, his grip on righteous fury slipping. He heard rather than saw her cross her arms and cock her hip, a whisper of clothing and skin he’d savored each time it rustled behind him. “Garrus.”

“What.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked up, surprised. “You’re right,” she sighed, “I never should have opened the Broker’s files on any of my crew. I thought I’d find something useful, something that would make us stronger…” she sniffed. “I found weapons. Water from a poisoned well.”

He chuffed, bitter. “Glowing performance reviews probably don’t sell as high.” Exhaustion swayed her and she stepped out to steady herself. She watched him stifle the reflex to attend her. He brushed it off to lean against the aquarium, arms crossed.

“Funny you should say that.” She prepared an olive branch of questionable value. “There was a performance review of sorts in your file. The Broker thought I was holding you back from reaching your full leadership potential. He was right.” Garrus held his stony silence. “No one else could have led the fire team through hell and back the way you did.”

His patch job failed. With the long hours and the liquor, her apology, her _approval…_ the hard, dense core of his anger fractured. He held on, though. “Where are the files now?”

“Never left the Broker’s ship. I deleted everything before I came back.” She looked at him, searching. “Even if the ship changes hands again, the new Broker will have nothing on you.”

He flicked his talons. It was a nice gesture, and yet… “Shepard. Remember when we talked about lines?” She nodded. “This, is a line. Us?” His voice cracked. “We aren't going to work, unless you _trust_ me the way I trust you.” 

_Ahh, fuck,_ she thought, _there it is._ She wiped a sudden tear from her eye and spread her arms, taking in the bed, the couch, all of it and all of her. “I never stopped, Garrus. I screwed up, crossed that line, but I never, _never_ stopped trusting you.”

She let her arms fall, and his did as well. He sighed, loosing the remains of his fury. In its place was a hollow that ached to be filled. He drew in a breath and regarded her, them, together after the storm. _It doesn’t have to hurt,_ the hollow whispered in his mother’s voice. _Forgive._ He pushed off the aquarium. “Okay. But I'm going to Palaven the next time we dock.”

The knot behind her ribs loosened as the last hostility fled the room. It wasn’t the first pedestal she’d fallen from, but it felt like the highest. "I'll have your passage booked." _On the fastest ship, with the best security._ It was the least she could do. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, _gross,_ and proceeded to wipe it on her undersuit. _In for a penny,_ she thought. She was filthy anyway. Dust from the abandoned mines charted a map of every vulnerable place on her body. 

He closed the distance between them. "Don't look at me that way," he said. "I'll be back." She tilted her chin to watch him, wanting but not daring to reach for him first. He raised gentle fingers to her face, the soft black leather of his gloves cool against her skin as he brushed her cheek. "You won't get rid of me so easily, Shepard." She pressed against his palm, eyes closed, swearing to herself that she would never again take his loyalty for granted. His mouth on her forehead brought her back to the room, and she leaned away, wrinkling her nose. 

“We both still reek of that mine,” she said. 

He chuckled. “I didn’t want to be the first to say something, but, mm, I’m pretty sure you have husk juice in your hair.” She ran a hand through her red hair and sure enough, her fingers came back flecked with dark silver ichor. He looked at it and tilted his fringe to the shower. “I’m here if you need me,” he said. 

“Sweeter words were never spoken,” she replied, sliding her hand over his. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Garrus Vakarian.”

“Well, tonight,” he said as he led her up the stairs, “you’d have a much harder time getting your hair clean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooo I hate it when Mom and Dad fight!
> 
> Grandma Vakarian's profession is a hat tip to Mysti_Fogg, whose Gma Vakarian is also a chef. I can't recall if there were more chefs in the family elsewhere in fandom, because I have the attention span of a newt.


	3. Elevensies

They laid on the bed facing each other, catching their breath. Garrus traced the spotted skin below her eyes. She twitched her nose where it tickled, and was rewarded with a light scratch. His eyes widened as he snatched his talon back. She rubbed the red line, her lips twisted into a half grin. He inhaled to speak, but she was faster. 

“Jeez, Vakarian. Two weeks on your home world and you come back half feral.” She inspected her fingers and found them free of blood. He tried to speak again, but she shook her head against the pillow, still smiling. “I’ll live. Somehow. It’s not like I gave you time to settle back in, after all.”

“Shepard, I’m sorry, we don’t… I left my file here and—”

“And you don’t share, and a good one is expensive. No, I get it.” She got up to slip a tank and soft shorts over her cooling skin, then laid back down and snuggled in close. “I meant to give you time to stow your things and get washed up, but your shuttle was delayed—”

“And you waited in the terminal, pining for me—”

“Absolutely wasting away.” She pressed her forehead against his. “You smell like coach. Four different kinds of fried food, recycled air, and sweaty feet.”

“Mm. If the way you jumped on me is any indication, I should find a way to bottle that. Would pay better than this gig.”

She pushed back and looked at him, wide eyed. “Wait, you’re getting paid?” They chuckled as they relaxed into the old, comfortable joke. When she returned she found him studying her, serious. “What’s going on in there, Garrus Vakarian?”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“Sending me home.”

“Ah. How… did it go?”

He rumbled a note on the lowest edge of her enhanced hearing. “It was good to see them. Hard, but worth it. Dad’s managing, still holding out hope I’ll carry on the C-Sec tradition. Sol’s killing it in tech division. She went nuts for that broken Collector rifle you sent, stayed in her room for days taking it apart.” He paused. “Seeing Mom again was… well. She had a few good days. Sol said it was the most lucid she’d been for a while.” He swallowed and fell silent.

“Hey.” Shepard rested her hand on his scarred mandible, feeling it twitch. “Any time you want to go back, I’ll make it happen.” He nodded. She twined her leg around him and pressed her forehead against his. He pulled her close, her loose clothes a thin cushion against his plates. She felt the vibration of his grief. They held each other until it faded. A different rumble sounded soon after, and she huffed. “The belly of the beast knows no shame,” she said. 

He hummed. “Need to grab something from the mess?”

“Nah, I keep a stash here. Wouldn’t get anything done otherwise.” She twisted to rummage in a drawer. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, mindful of his spurs against the solid frame. “Ah ha! I have some for you, too.” She tossed the crinkly bag to him and he caught it mid-yawn. She popped up with a silver packet in one hand and a foil bag in the other, and moved to the couch. 

He sorted through his choices and pulled a jam pastry from the bag. It was dented on one corner, and he felt a twinge of discomfort when he realized why. He put it back. “I’m ah, surprised you kept this here.”

She shrugged as she tore the silver package with her teeth. “It wasn’t going to spoil, and Tali couldn’t eat most of it. Figured I’d drop it in the C-Sec donation bin if you stayed on Palaven.” She set out hummus, crisp sesame crackers, and a cup of bright green olives. “Not gonna join me?”

“They fed us on the ship. Probably my last chance to have real tezli ei cjin for a while, so I maaay have overdone it a bit.”

“Mm,” she swallowed. “What’s that?”

“Tezli is heart of the xemna, the largest Palaveni grazer. It’s simmered for a full day in cjin sauce, which is nuts, herbs, and wine. It was my grandmother’s favorite." He set the bag down. "She would always say, 'Heart is simple, but easy to get wrong.'” He stared through the gauzy, shiny material. “It wasn’t until later I realized, she wasn’t talking about food.”

She scraped hummus from the jar, popped the last chip into her mouth and opened her freeze-dried berry mix. She shook the bag at him, offering a little sweetness. He sat across from her to accept a small palmful. “She sounds like a smart woman. I take it she passed?”

“Mm. She had my father late in her life, and he had us late in his. She died a few months after I started at C-Sec.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He flicked a mandible. “It was harder on Sol. Grandmother and I drifted apart when I left for basic, but they were close.” He shook his head and brought himself back to the room. He looked at her. She rolled the berries on her tongue, eyes unfocused deep in thought, and he took the opportunity to study her as close as he liked. Her hair was shorter and redder than he remembered; the bright locks trailed along her jaw and shivered when she swept a hand across her forehead. Her eyes weren’t as grey as he’d thought on meeting her, but flecked with blue and green near the black pupil. The tawny spots he’d been tracing laid across her nose and cheeks like stardust against her pale skin. When he reached her lips, he couldn’t hold his sigh at the perfection of her arcs, her hues and lines. He’d studied her for years, first in life, then death. When she came back to him, he spent months etching all of her points and curves and angles into his mind, to keep. 

“See anything you like, Vakarian?” The lips curled into a grin.

“Can I say what I don’t like instead? We might be here a while, otherwise.”

“Oh,” she stretched her arms along the back of the couch, “do tell.”

He leaned forward. “I don’t like this table between us.” He placed his hands on the table and leaned over them, cutting the distance in half. “I don’t like the chill in the air when you’re not beside me.” He stood and offered his hand, and led her to the bed when she accepted. They laid down together, on their sides, propped up on their elbows. He slid the smooth edge of his curled talons down her side, watching the fine hair rise in response. “I don’t like wasting time, after it took so long to get here.”

Her eyes sharpened. “And how long is that? Sure I can guess, but hearing confession is more satisfying.”

“I’ll tell if you will.”

“Deal.”

He sighed, lifting his talons from her skin to scratch at the back of his neck. “It’s no secret I was young and stupid when we met,” he began. “You let me join your team and I saw your name in neon, with starlight in your hair and rainbows shining out your ass.” She laughed, and he chuckled with her. “You took me seriously about Saleon, even though you said the usual things about rules and reason. You promised to do something about it, then you _did._ That was the start, I think.”

“Rainbows out my ass,” she giggled. 

“Just, boom. Rainbows.” He waved his mandibles in a grin, and paused. “When Sovereign crashed down on us and we were separated, my first thought was, where is she. Someone else found us, asked about you. Ash thought you were gone, but in my head, around and around, _where is she._ When you climbed out of the wreckage and looked down at me, it was like being in the presence of an old god. We haven’t believed in gods for thousands of years, but with the battle at your back and the Reaper under your feet, everything else I knew fell short. I’d have done anything for you after that, Shepard. Anything you asked.”

“And I asked you to leave.” She sighed.

“Well, you suggested I might have a brighter future elsewhere. You were almost right. The Spectres contacted me after I returned to C-Sec. They were evaluating my record, when…” he cleared his throat. “Anyway. The coverup went live and the offer disappeared. I was stuck in a bureaucratic nightmare. You were dead. My mentor, my advocate, my friend… dead. And they pissed on your memory.

“I was full of bad ideas. Omega seemed like a good place to put the worst of them to the test... all the ideas that felt viciously right in the moment, and just vicious the day after.” She pressed her palm against his chest, witness to his remorse. “And in what I knew were my final moments, neck deep in mortal failure, in a place so desperate I’d called my estranged family to say goodbye, you came for me. And you were glad. You, Shepard, hero of the Citadel, goddess of battle, were alive, and you were happy to see me.” He sniffed. “You smiled at me, and that was it. Even in my unbalanced, stimmed up, sleep deprived mind, I knew I’d love you ‘til the day I died.”

“Pfft. Played that one close to the vest, Vakarian. All your talk about how crazy we were, ‘blowing off steam,’ I was half convinced you were repulsed by the very thought.”

He snorted. “I loved you as a mortal loves a mountain. What does one say, when propositioned by a mountain?”

Her smile faded. “Is that how you see me? Still?”

“No.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “Mountains are unmoving. Gods demand worship. You reach, touch, fall and rise. You gave me permission to love you as a mortal loves another.” He let his gaze fall from her hair on his hand to her sharp eyes. “I will, Shepard.” He leaned forward to press his mouth on hers. She pressed back, reaching for his cheek, his neck. He caught her fingers in his with a thrum, a teasing glint in his eye. “Ah ah, your turn. Tell me a story.”

She hummed, thoughtful. “When I woke up, I was tested, observed, thrust into an uncanny life behind one way glass, unsure of my mind and body and given no time to think about either. Crossing that bridge, I was ready to welcome another stranger, another puzzle with half the pieces missing. Then I was there, and Archangel took his helmet off, and it was _you._ And you accepted that I, was me.” She traced his colony mark, the edge of his mandible. “Garrus, that was the first time since waking up on that gurney that I felt like myself again. The first time I felt like maybe… maybe, I would be okay. Later, as we fell back into our old rhythm and the battery became a haven after missions, I saw how you wore the years I missed. My kid brother had gone through hell and come out the other side. Alive, but scarred in more ways than one.”

“Lucky for me, you like men with scars.”

She smiled. “I like men who are more than their scars. You showed me that when you let Sidonis walk. Young Garrus would never have allowed it, the bad guy getting away, but this Garrus, my Garrus, saw the grey. He saw the place where I live.” She slid her arm beneath the pillow and rolled onto her back to look out the overhead window. He stacked pillows under his head to do the same. “I cared for you, counted on you, trusted you to watch my back and called on your faith as a touchstone when I doubted my new reality. I already loved you in so many ways. Seeing you process your grief, your failure, and emerge stronger… remember going through decon that night?” He nodded. “You unhooked your visor and stared at it. I saw your whole face for the first time. The plate it rests on was dented from the pressure, and you blinked several times before your eye focused. I’d never seen someone in full armor look so naked. You put it back on and left as soon as the door opened. As you walked away, I felt a piece of me go with you. I didn’t understand then, but that was the tipping point.” She turned to him, curling around his sharp angles. He wrapped his lower arm around her and took her hand to lay it across his chest, stroking her exposed skin with bare talons. “Everything that followed, led here.”

He rumbled a low note. It sounded like purring. “I’m glad,” he said, “I like it here.”

“Mm. So tell me, what else do you like?” She grinned when he rolled on top of her, minding his talons as he slipped his arm from under her back. He nudged her leg aside to rest within the hinge of her thighs and pressed the semblance of a kiss into the hollow of her shoulder. She traced the small plates that speckled his neck, her fingers hungry for the play of hard edge and soft skin.

He raised his head to fix her eyes with his own, and she fell up into their bright depths. “Can I show you instead?” he asked.

“Always,” she replied.


	4. Luncheon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy N7 Day!

Shepard pressed against her eyes until bright spots blotted out the dark. The datapad lay forgotten in her lap, covered with crushed wrappers from the three protein bars she’d scarfed down earlier. She’d tried meditating, but the orb wouldn’t hold. She tried t’ai chi but her muscles trembled with every movement. Her bed was made with Marine precision. Her armor had been cleaned. Three times. Her fish were fed. She considered the rec room, but she sure as hell didn’t want the crew to see her like this. 

How much longer could they take?

She jumped off the couch, scattering wrappers and crumbs, cracking the datapad on the table’s edge.

“Shit,” she whispered, gingerly gathering the shards from her floor. 

She sighed and took the trash to the small chute near the door. She brushed her hands after she sent it down, and froze. The elevator opened and she could just hear the deliberately inoffensive female voice announce, “Top deck, captains quarters.”

Then her door opened, and he was there. She bit her cheek to stop the rush of tears that pricked her eyes. He looked drawn and haggard, small in the black undersuit he’d worn to surgery. Chakwas motioned for her to take her place under his arm. She ducked below him and lifted, and the doctor rested a hand on her shoulder before leaving quietly. They took slow, careful steps to the couch, around the table, shuffling their feet in perfect sync. She eased him down, and he sank heavily into the cushions. She stepped back to look at him. He closed his eyes, exhausted.

The bandage was gone. 

In its place, a mess of scar tissue and cybernetics. She gazed at his mangled, purple flesh that stretched and whirled, underlit by a ghostly blue flicker and pulse. His mandible was connected with a biostrap, lab-grown muscle and a synth mesh. She let out a low whistle. He hummed. 

“Goddamn, G, you spent the whole campaign fighting like that.”

“Mm. Felt better when it was covered. Less… raw.”

“Why take it off now?”

“Couldn’t help anymore, they said. Something about it needing to be exposed to the air to desensitize but spirits it’s… really sensitive right now.”

Shepard changed her tone. “Dim cabin lights, night setting” she said, and they dimmed to a low, warm amber.

“Thanks. That helps.” She nodded. “Hey,” he cracked an eye to look at her, “they made me skip breakfast. Think we could—”

“Oh! God I’m an idiot. Yes. Be right back.” She threw her N7 hoodie on and ran out the door.

He chuckled at her back, and moaned at the wave of pain it sparked. They’d explained what they were doing and what to expect, his concerned, ruthless team of medical professionals. They’d given him a mirror. Knowing didn’t make it feel any better. He supposed it made sense to have them all there, but spirits, to have Chakwas, Miranda, and Mordin looking down at him as the anesthetics took hold was unsettling to say the very least. When he woke it was to a blinding pain, nearly as bad as when he’d been hit the first time. Mordin connected a new bag to his IV and analgesics flowed into his arm, dulling it to a distant roar. Chakwas held his hand, her fingers warm and comforting on his gloveless skin. He shivered a bit from the intimacy, but soon relaxed into a dim appreciation of her touch as the painkillers flooded his body. He tried to get up, but she pressed him down and he was too drugged up to resist. He kept trying, though, until she relented and took him upstairs.

He laid on the couch, breathing through the dull knives that sank into his flesh with every tiny breath of air on his ruined skin. He tried not to think of the reaction people would have on seeing the mess of his neck, the mandible he’d nearly lost. _Cracked plate,_ they’d call him, scarred and weak. A low keen escaped with his next breath, and the dam broke. He filled his chest with a shuddering breath and let it out with a moan, a tuneless song of mourning. He’d been effortlessly attractive before, dashing with blue eyes and blue markings, the Palaveni bars on silver plate that did the smooth talking for him in every turian disco. Now they were half gone, pulverized into his flesh, no longer strong, straight lines but wavering ripples, unsteady and unworthy.

Cracked plate. Too stupid to stay whole, too cowardly to die with honor. He curled into the couch, putting his back to the room, and that’s how Shepard found him.

“Garrus?” She set the food down and laid a hand on his shoulder. He curled up tighter, willing her away. “Hey big guy,” she said, running her hand down his arm, “I had Gardner make you some real food.”

“Not right now.” 

Quiet, muffled. Broken. Shepard’s heart dropped to her knees. She sank to the floor and took as much of him as she could fit in her arms. She laid her cheek on his hard back and held him, willing her warmth and strength into his trembling form. Their food grew cold.

After a while, she didn’t know how long, he took a deep breath, and let it out with a sigh. She leaned away to let him sit up, and he did. He pushed himself back against the couch, upright at last but still closed in. She rose to her knees, took his whole mandible in her palm, and made him face her. His eyes were a millions miles distant. She pressed a kiss on the smooth side of his mouth. She pressed a kiss to the center. She swept her thumb along his bony jaw, and kissed his scars. He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, he was looking at her. 

“You’re not…” he searched for the right word. “They’re not, repellent, to you?”

She shook her head slowly. “Never.” She kissed him again. “Can I…” she turned his head. He dipped his chin. “Here?” She kissed his cracked mandible. He leaned toward her. “Here?” She kissed his cheek where the plate’s jagged edge fell to splinters. He tilted his head, searching for a greater pressure. “Here,” she whispered, her lips ghosting on the striated, glowing flesh of his neck. 

He trembled under her kiss, his oversensitive flesh a jangled chorus of too much and not nearly enough. His sigh slipped down her neck, and he felt her shudder, smelled her sudden warmth. A light bloomed in his ragged chest, a swelling affirmation that even scarred, he could make her quiver. He gently pushed her back. She sat on her heels and cocked her head, a question.

“Mordin warned me against any, ah, physical exertion. You keep going, it’ll be difficult to follow the good doctor’s orders.”

She smiled. “Well, we can’t have that. The good doctor has many ways of making his patients follow orders, and only two of them are pleasant.”

He chuffed. She leaned forward to brush her forehead against his for the briefest moment, then turned to their cold lunch. She split the dishes, congealed meat chunks and cold bread for him, and for her, a glutinous noodle pile with limp vegetables and solidified chunks of fat. She wrinkled her nose with a grin.

“Bon appetit,” she said, twirling her fork in the mound.

“Lon chechyin, ti’onore” he replied.

_May it nourish all, my love._


End file.
